My Boy Builds Coffins
by shialuvr222
Summary: Sitting in his chair, he carves the intricate curls and loops belonging to the pine boxes he took up building years ago. "This one's for me, Abbs." Not a deathfic.


A/N: Before you even read this, please note that it is _weird. _This is actually pretty different from my original idea, but I like the end result. That's not to say I think it's perfect; I think it could have been written far better. I do, however, like the premise.

This is a songfic to "My Boy Builds Coffins" by Florence and the Machine.

I wrote this in about three or four hours because I wanted to post something on Leap Day. It only comes once in every four years. I probably could have been way better if I had spent more time on it, but oh well. It's 11:57 now, so I need to hurry to post it before it becomes March 1st.

This is (supposed to be) a glimpse of Tim and Abby's life in their mid-forties or fifties. Tim is essentially just like Gibbs.

A quick note: This will probably be my last ever songfic. There have been questions concerning the legality of using song lyrics in stories, along with personal slams on my writing ability, originality and my personality. I am NOT succumbing to flamers, but I never wanted to break the site rules. I wrote the site and asked them if I had broken any rules, and until I hear back from them, I will continue to post as usual. If I find out I have, indeed, broken the rules of agreement, however, this will be my last songfic.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own anything associated, affiliated or otherwise connected with NCIS or the song My Boy Builds Coffins by Florence and the Machine.

XXX

_My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails  
>He doesn't build ships, he has no use for sails<br>_

She lets the sound of the key jiggling in the lock fill her ears, noting how cold the doorknob is as she twists it and the way her wrist stretches as she pushes inward. The light is dim and smoky inside the room, so much that, after she shuts the door behind her, all she can clearly see is the orange glow signifying the tip of a cigarette. She lopes across the room.

_He doesn't make tables, dressers or chairs_  
><em>He can't carve a whistle cause he just doesn't care<em>

It's a small room, but she likes to think of it as cozy instead. No one has ever come inside except the two of them. It is their space, its plain white walls and concrete floors not to be interrupted by the outside world. It took her a while to get used to constantly inhaling smoke, but she never considers asking him to quit. She has her own vices, and he has his. She stands in front of the man, seated in the only chair.

_My boy builds coffins for the rich and the poor_  
><em>Kings and queens them all knocked on his door<em>

His face is rugged and rough, but not as old as one may expect. She smiles to herself, remembering when he was pale and asthmatic. He retains his height and thinness, though he has gained body strength, but his eyes are different. No longer innocent. He has seen and done things that no innocence can survive, she knows; some of it, she helped him commit. Both of them have changed over the years, enough that their families wouldn't have recognized them at all.

_Beggars and liars, gypsies and thieves_  
><em>They all come to him 'cause he's so eager to please<em>

He exhales more smoke into the room, grasping the always-present cigarette between his middle and index fingers. She doesn't know exactly how he began the habit –he definitely didn't have it when she met him - or how he overcame the asthma he had had all his life, but he never coughs. She's used to the smell, and sometimes takes a few drags herself. Not now, though.

_My boy builds coffins, he makes them all day_  
><em>But it's not just for work and it isn't for play<em>

No. Now she slowly begins to unbutton her shirt to reveal her bra, black and brand new, contrasting with her smooth ivory skin. Then she sits on his lap, allowing the shirt to fall to the floor. He observes calmly, taking a drag from the small white nicotine-packed cylinder.

She pulls the tobacco from his lips and replaces it with her lips, sliding her tongue along the inside of his mouth. It's an action he returns.

_He's made one for himself, one for me too_  
><em>And one of these days he'll make one for you<em>

When they separate, she exhales the smoke from her mouth that originated in his. Then she takes the cigarette, still clasped between her thin fingers, and sucks a bit of nicotine from it before returning it to him.

"I'm going to bed," she says, climbing off of his lap and snatching her discarded garment from the floor.

"Night," he replies, his once-clear voice rasping as a result of his addiction. She sends him one last glance before entering the only other room in the apartment, the one that served as the bedroom.

She is the only one who ever uses it. He doesn't sleep.

_My boy builds coffins for better or worse_  
><em>Some say its a blessing, some say its a curse<em>

She wakes up in the night to the familiar grating sound of sandpaper on wood. She stands and pads across the room lightly, her bare feet making hardly a sound. Leaning against the doorway to the other room, she observes her man.

Sitting in his chair, he carves the intricate curls and loops belonging to the pine boxes he took up building years ago. This one appears to be a bit more ornate than the ones most recently preceding it, though he's made too many for her to remember them all.

But he remembers.

_He fits them together in sunshine or rain_  
><em>Each one is unique, no two are the same<em>

Watching him whittle the pieces so lovingly and carefully reminds her of the man who taught him. That man was killed a long time ago.

Gibbs.

She tries to resist thinking the names - she learned quickly that that just made the grief worse – but they mutinously circulated in her head anyway.

Gibbs. Tony. Ziva.

"Didn't mean to wake you up."

His voice and stare mercifully pulled her from the viciously persistent memories. She shook her head.

"You didn't. I couldn't sleep."

He gave a lopsided smile. "Know what you mean there."

_My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame_  
><em>That when each one's been made, he can't see it again<em>

She sidled over in the dim light and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He dropped his tool onto the small table and examined her fingers closely.

He draws his thumb over the ring on her left hand, attempting to restore some semblance of shine to the single diamond there. She watches him try for a minute or two before leaning down and whispering in his ear, "It's alright."

He hesitantly moves on.

_He crafts every one with love and with care_  
><em>Then its thrown in the ground, it just isn't fair<em>

She knows why he doesn't sleep. There are too many thoughts in his mind that won't quiet. She used to have it too, and she isn't quite sure why it stopped. She knows what he in thinking of just from the look in his eyes.

"You're just like him, you know," she whispers.

She is the only one who can take his rough façade and make it disappear completely. She sees the uncertainty in his expression. "Are you sure?" he murmurs.

"Yes."

At his silence, she continues. "You're a mysterious entity to everyone, you have your own team, you even talk like him." She pauses. "The only difference between you and him is that you smoke instead of drinking bourbon."

_My boy builds coffins he makes them all day_  
><em>But it's not just for work and it isn't for play<em>

"I don't feel like I've done enough."

"Neither did he."

He leans forward, pulling out of her embrace, and slides a hand affectionately over the unfinished wooden pieces. "This one's mine, Abbs."

"I know," she states, though her feelings on the matter are much less calm. _Don't leave me. Not like they all did._

He seems to know what she's thinking before the sentiment ever reaches her features. "It'll be a while yet," he reassures, recapturing her hand in his. "I just want to be ready."

That unsettles her, but it's better than the alternative. She claims her familiar spot on his lap and retrieves the cigarette from between his lips.

"Tim," she murmurs quietly, "build mine next."

_He's made one for himself, one for me too_  
><em>And one of these days he'll make one for you<em>

XXX

A/N: PLEASE review. This is (one of) the oddest stories I have ever written or posted. This is also probably as sexually inclined as it will ever get, since I don't write smut. Anyway, if you read it, please review. I really need to know how I did.


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